


Distracted

by EvilLittleImp



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29279904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilLittleImp/pseuds/EvilLittleImp
Summary: Alastor battles Vox for a dominance in power, because in Hell, power is a. . . well, not quite a lifeline. One moment's distraction, and Alastor finds himself finally facing his immortality with dread. Vox promises to wipe the smile from his prisoner's face, but he's had it so long, Alastor doesn't know what to do without it.This whole story is written for a very close friend of mine who has been requesting a story where Vox tortures Alastor, so if anyone besides us had been wanting one of these, please tell me! I'd love to put other ideas into this!{2/8/21 - I'm extremely sorry, readers, but this story cannot be updated for another several years. I will try to continue this as soon as possible, but I have to wait 'til I turn eighteen. For those who enjoyed this chapter, I'm sorry; for those who don't care. . . have a nice day!}{TEMPORARY HIATUS}
Relationships: Alastor/Charlie Magne
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Distracted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InnocentLittleAngel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnocentLittleAngel/gifts).



> I don't know how often I'll be able to update, but I'll try for once a week, maybe once every two weeks. Enjoy! :}

Alastor hummed to himself as he walked down the uneven paths of Hell. Certainly no place like home, whether for the better or worse. He grinned wider as he felt the power rush through him, from his fingertips to his hoof-print boots. After so many decades of smiling, his cheekbones weren’t even sore anymore, only proceeding to show him that time was endless when you had nowhere to go. To go. . . Oh, how Charlie so desperately wanted demons to go to Heaven. Lost causes, every one of them! But desperate souls  _ did  _ make the best entertainment, even if they were nothing but pathetic wastes of space. Take Bubblegum, the worker at the meatshop, such a distasteful use of good flesh, though it had made a good meal. A warlord he may be, but picking on defenceless pawns such as that little lamb, so wrong; bad form in every sense. Hazbin Hotel would fail only Charlie’s expectations, it would suit his perfectly.

Growling through a clenched smile, Alastor stumbled just slightly as the ground shook, giving way to a stretching crevasse. Electricity crackled through the air, tearing demons apart piece by piece. Screams filled the air and blood painted the road like a canvas while twisted vines of darkness crawled over the pavement. The jagged edges of the chasm gave way to fire and lava as Vox, smiling as widely as ever, rose to the surface on a pedestal. Drama queen. If he was going to make a good entrance, he should have done it with flair! A true show was the only way to make an impression around here. There was a reason Alastor broadcasted his massacres throughout Hell. Fear keeps them away, and style brings respect. Mix the two, and the stories alone brought wails to the throats of these cowering idiots. They ran and hid, but no, not him. He simply kept walking, toward the pit maybe, but he could teleport over it.

“You never know when to just back down, do you?” Vox sneered at him as he passed.

“Back down?” Alastor laughed, letting his microphone influence his voice, “Why, who has time for such a tiring thing, hmm? I have far better places to be.”

Truly, he didn’t, but the lie was worth the scowl that graced the television screen. No one copied his smile; it was one of a kind and perfectly malicious. His teeth were practically his logo by now. The only problem was that “The Smiley Demon” didn’t quite have the same ring to it.

“What, you think I’m just another one of these fools?” Vox clenched his needle point digits, “You couldn’t beat me in your most hellish dreams, Radio Demon.”

“Well, thankfully my dreams don’t include you. Now that would be truly abhorrent,” Alastor laughed.

The television demon straightened and centered his bow tie, “You’d be  _ lucky _ to dream of me, smiles.”

Alastor suddenly thought of Angel and that stupid nickname he used when the spider thought he wasn’t listening. He wanted to snort in derision, but that might ruin his laconic facade, and he couldn’t have that. That little spider really did need to watch what he did with his mouth, or it might be sewn shut. 

“‘Lucky’ certainly isn’t the word I would choose, but then again, you don’t strike me as the sane type, so I’ll let this one go,” Alastor waved his hand dismissively.

“You think you’re better than me, pet? Oh how wrong I’ll prove you!” Vox let his smirk slither into place.

Alastor’s back straightened so fast it popped as radio static clouded his voice and the symbols telling his story burst out around him, “What did you call me?”

Of course, Vox wouldn’t know what the symbols were, no one did. He hadn’t even decoded them all himself. They were the script of his power, though, he knew that much. The fear that ruled others, written out from the fear that had ruled him every second of his life, up to his final moments. The anger that made him snap, made into an ever-present story about the anger taken out on him in his childhood. Every minute, every pain, every tear, every ounce of personality, it was all demurely written in the air, and no one ever knew. How comedic.

“ _ ‘Pet _ , _ ’ _ ” Vox hissed, predatory grin splitting his face in half.

Spinning his staff before bringing it to the ground with a sound crack, Alastor let his power spread through the foundation of this pathetic, pointless block of demons. Fire spouted up, creating combat between flame and lightning. The air sweltered and snapped with heat and magic as incandescent darkness blanketed the street. Everyone fled, and those who didn’t became nothing but stains on the already painted streets. The previously dormant twists of black came to life, moving toward Alastor. The Radio Demon flicked his arm out, not breaking face as his own magic came out of the ground as spiked vines, knarled and demented in their own right. The vines and twists grappled briefly, just barely catching one another, before they began entwining, suffocating the opposing side’s magic. Flames licked up around electricity as they took intermittent stabs at each other, bringing real heat to Hell. The lava from the chasm rose to the air, taking the form of a lion-headed demon with a snake tail. One ear twitching in annoyance, Alastor twirled his wrist, molten pavement moulding together to create a monster with the legs of a panther and the wings of an eagle. Along with his new pet, his old minions pop out of the ground, cackling and ready to die as many deaths as it takes to repay their debts to him; each one of them only goes to show that you don’t make deals with the devil. Their claws tore into Vox’s creation as their teeth - protruding from faces sewn together after he himself had torn them apart - sank into its mane, biting at its neck. The demon's tail lashed out, catching several of the little debtors as Alastor’s own monster beat its wings against the sweltering air, shooting through the air as fast as the bullet that had ended its master’s life. It brings flames down on its opponent’s lightning as their claws sink into artificial flesh.

Making an abrasive, rash decision, Alastor appears behind Vox, grabbing the television’s shoulder in a grip that brought an audible snap to the air. Clearly ignoring his limp limb, Vox turned, sliding his crocodile smile into place, seeming almost lackadaisical in his loose composure. He appeared as though the threat of the most powerful demon in Hell meant nothing to him. Power was Alastor’s shield, the thing that made him different from the past, living, version of himself. Power was his safety net. Power was his comfort. Power was his. Power was not Vox’s, and there was no way that pathetic excuse of time would take the security he had worked so hard for. That security was his, too.

“You’re out of your league, dear,” Alastor’s smile stretches so wide even he feels how fake it is.

“No, I believe I’m right where I should be, pet,” Vox smiles right back, but the difference is that his is real, though far from genuine.

Alastor’s eyes darken as his magic lashes out in his defence, skewing other-wordly symbols about the air. The temperature drops even as the heat around them causes the air to ripple and oxygen to flea. Without warning, through fire and electricity and blood, snow falls. Strange really, Alastor reflects as Vox’s own magic bites back, prepared to do its worst, how snow can fall in heat that would melt the flesh from a normal human. Not real snow, he supplies as he sees the tinged red color of it, just a sick version meant to remind him of all the times his father would send him out to sleep in it without a blanket. He could still feel the tinge of frostbite when a fleck landed on his outstretched finger. What times he’d had. 

Somehow, he must have lost time somewhere, his claws are digging into Vox’s throat, magic waiting to be used as the television’s screen bears the mark of his claws, his own face stinging from a clear lash that he’s sure will be healed before Charlie sees it. Little Charlie grew up in a world of blood, she doesn’t need to see any more of it. His staff had disappeared at some point, and for a moment, he’s in a fog, not quite sure why he’s doing this or why he lost time so suddenly. But he knows what he’s doing now. Vox’s claws rake down his chest, tearing his perfectly pressed suit, leaving gashes that stood out against his milky skin. It’s stupid, he thinks, that his pale skin can be seen while his gloves are still on. Defeats the purpose, really. He never takes his gloves off, nor his boots. Part of the facade, he tells himself. He doesn’t even take them off at the hotel, especially since it’s seen more guests. Guest, or just lost causes, but either way, they can see him in nothing less than perfect apparel. And that’s just the way it is. Maybe he took off his suit jacket once, and maybe the soft, heart-melting - if he had one - smile he got from Charlie made him think it was worth it, but that was once. That was then. He knows what he’s doing now.

Tightening his grip on Vox’s throat, he brings his unoccupied hand to the demon’s limp arm and twists, relishing his opponent’s cry of pain. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks that maybe he sees his monster fighting the television, but his attention snaps back when Vox lashes out with his magic. The twisting and twirling bits of congealed magic curling around Alastor’s vines withdraw, forcing their thorn-laden twins to pursue. Whatever could Vox be playing at?

“You know, with all my magic, I can reach anyone,” Vox clicks his blood dowsed claws together, “Spiders, gamblers, little maids, building staff. . . princesses. Anyone.”

Alastor just keeps his breath from hitching, “If you can kill useless pawns, why haven’t you taken them off the board already? Just taking up space other pieces could use, don’t you think?” and he means it; they are nothing but useless pawns.

Charlie, though, is she a pawn? The hotel was a game, sure, a pure screen for entertainment, amusement. His amusement, in fact; but was she part of it? Was she just another piece to the puzzle? Another character for the act? Another pawn on the board?

The moments hesitation grants his opponent - no, his enemy now - just the time he needs to use his magic. The dark twists surge forward, wrapping themselves around Alastor. He growls in aggravation, and maybe a slight bit of apprehension, as they squeeze his body tight. He keeps his smile in place, though. The moment his smile falls, that’s the moment they all know, and they can’t ever know. If they know what he knows, they will surely stop fearing him and sneer instead. The sneering had always been worse. And the laughing. . . like he was nothing but entertainment. The growl turns into a grown as his bones crack and splinter under the grip that  _ just doesn’t stop _ . Then the electricity comes, and it’s shooting through him, and he hates it, and his smile is still there. Every nerve is on fire and it’s like his nerves are torn apart, torn to small pieces that hang on by only a thread. It’s like the dogs, he can’t help but think. He feels the electricity, but is it electricity, or is it the agony of claws and teeth, tearing his flesh from the bones and muscles they’re supposed to be attached to.

And then it’s dark. He swears he hears the shot of a gun, and maybe that’s just his memory filling in the gaps that are quickly forming, but maybe, just maybe, he’s back there. In those woods. With that stupid brief case full of cash. And maybe he just died. . . again, or for the first time? Maybe he never died at all. Maybe he’ll wake up to find that what felt like decades were only coma-induced dreams produced by nights and nights out in the cold as his father promised he could come in when he’d learned his lesson. Maybe he never existed at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! If you have any ideas for the torture that shall ensue, I would appreciate your comments. :}


End file.
